Requiem
by Pansophy2
Summary: Marisa Coulter/Lord Asriel, sequel of sorts to Oraculum with the two probably crossing over.
1. damnium fatale

_Requiem_

_Dies irce, dies illa_

_Solvet saeclum in favilla_

It was by far the most breath taking thing she had ever seen.

Fragile petals, snowy white and tinged with the faintest hints of the lightest lilac, shimmering silver and beautiful blue, loosely clung together to form the most elegant flower she had ever laid eyes on. In the caress of the moon that shone down through the great glass dome overhead, the petals appear almost translucent, cold, as if frozen in time underneath their crystal cage; flourished forever in eternal beauty, waiting for the touch of the woman for whom the flower had been intended. She who was pure of heart. The touch of another, an unworthy, would cause those delicate petals to shatter like ice.

It took all of her self control not to murmur out loud the words she had been taught as a child, drummed into her very being so as to be as natural to her as breathing.

_May eternus lux lucis fulsi super suus__, a sanctus pro totus infinitio_

May everlasting light shine upon her, a saint for all eternity.

The golden monkey chittered softly in the young woman's arms as an involuntary shiver skittered down her spine. Hugging her daemon a little tighter, Marisa Coulter reached out with a trembling hand and touched the crystal dome that housed one of the most sacred of relics. A single petal trembled and with a soft sigh, the rose released it from its death grip. Twisting and turning, a delicate dance in an invisible breeze, the petal floated to the table below. From the wound, left by the petal, a silver tear fell.

As though the icy crystal had scalded her, Marisa snatched her hand away, mesmerized as the stricken rose bled before her. The golden monkey, now agitated, clung to his mistress, mewing softly in her ear, begging her to leave this forbidden place, this most sacred shrine that they had violated out of nothing more than a deep curiosity. Another shiver raced through her and this time, she turned and fled from the sanctuary and out into the frigid winter night.

Her ragged breaths hung suspended in frosty clouds in the coldness of the night air, soft snow crunching under foot as she gathered her long cream evening gown in her arms and fled up the path and through the rose garden, quite unwilling to spend another second in the vicinity of the chapel. Voices of those long gone haunted her as she ran, some whispering comfort, some whispering ill thoughts, all of them figments of her imagination, she told herself as she plunged deeper and deeper into the maze, no longer capable of remembering to carefully trace her footsteps back the way she had come.

It wasn't until she could once more see the splendor of the Palace and hear the faint strains of the violins and the hubbub of polite conversation that she allowed herself to slow down and catch her breath. Resting against the stone wall that encircled a fountain, Marisa felt a giggle of girlish delight rise in her throat. She had done it. She had really done it.

"I told you!" She whispered triumphantly to her daemon, who was casting his eye over their surroundings with apprehension. "I told you we would find it!"

"Quite but we're not back where we started!" Her daemon hissed, prowling around the fountain. "If we're caught, it'll be the end of _everything_."

Frowning, Marisa took stock of their surroundings; her daemon's anxiety was well founded. Had it not been for Edward's recent promotion, she wouldn't even have been allowed within a two mile radius of the Palace never mind inside it. However, on the eve of Martinmas, the crème de la crème of Brytain's upper class danced the night away in the Snow Ballroom of the Palace. In more recent times, it had become habit for the King to invite his most senior advisors and politicians to spend the evening attending a lavish do in the Rose Ballroom. Not nearly as grand as the main event, but nonetheless, a great honor indeed. It was the only time that mere subjects were allowed to set foot in the Palace. It would never do for the wife of a senior politician, a rising star, to be caught trespassing like a common thief. Edward would abandon her in a heartbeat. It simply wouldn't do.

It panicked her, a feeling to which she was quite unaccustomed but her fear of being caught was quickly replaced by the realization that she had somehow managed to take a wrong turn in the gardens and had approached the Palace from the east rather than the west. Which meant, she thought with a flutter of excitement, she was standing mere feet away from Snow Ballroom. Even from here she could see the odd guest or two strolling out of the patio doors, women pulling their furs a little tighter around their shoulders, men indulging in a smoking leaf before heading back inside to the party.

Her daemon was alert, his little black horny hands plucking at her skin as he chattered with a greedy excitement. Everything they had ever dreamed of was so close and yet still tantalisingly out of reach. For no matter how hard Edward worked, no matter how far he got, he would always be hampered by the fact that he was not of noble blood. It was possible, she now knew with a feeling of despair, that Edward had reached the pinnacle and was quite unable of making that last and final leap to the utmost echelon of power. It had occurred to her earlier in the night, when she had stood in line next to her husband, in the Rose Ballroom, still not entirely speaking to him after his cutting remarks as to how much she had spent of _his _money on her dress, waiting for the briefest glimpse of the King as he did a brief circuit of those most important advisors in the Rose Ballroom before presiding over the Snow Ball. Edward had seemed crushed not to be one of them but rather than stay and comfort her husband, Marisa had snuck off outside, ostensibly for some air. Only then had it occurred to her, in one of her brief and childish flights of fancy, that if she could find the fabled artic rose, she could wish for all the things she could only dream of.

Nothing more than folklore and rumour, oh, she knew but anything was better than staying a moment longer in the stuffy ballroom with people who, whilst powerful in their own small circle, lacked any real kind of authority.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

For a dizzying moment, her heart stopped beating and the world grew dark as she felt those rough hands seize hold of her, a snarling wolf daemon pinning down the golden monkey. In that sickening moment, Marisa realized that the Palace Guards had snuck up on her from behind, which could only mean that there was a chance that they knew she had dared to set foot in the King's private chapel, a sanctuary to a Great Queen who never was. She, who upon her death as a young woman had become a Saint in the eyes of the Church; only those of royal blood were permitted to enter with the King's permission, To enter otherwise was more than simply breaking and entering; it was blasphemy, a crime still punishable by death.

"I'm terribly sorry," the silky words slipped from her mouth in a perfectly formed lie as she lowered her lashed bashfully. Her mind was racing, weaving the fabric of her story for she could only rely on herself. Edward's name wouldn't save her this time. "I was simply getting a breath of air and perhaps I've wandered a little far from the Ball…" she waved a hand behind her.

"If you're attending, you won't object to showing us your invitation," one of the guards barked, holding out his hand as the other looked pointedly at the ground underfoot and her footsteps, carved out in the snow like a blood trail.

"I……"

"I didn't realize harassing guests was part of your job description, Rex."

The hands seizing her arms dropped her instantly at the sound of the deep, harsh voice. It was basic instinct more than anything else when she turned, stumbling slightly towards her savior. Warm hands, strong hands, steadied her, gripping her wrist. The two guard stood pale, both staring at the ground, their daemons submissive as they bowed awkwardly.

"She was sneaking around, My Lord," the man who had grabbed her stammered. "We think she's been…"

"I doubt either of you capable of thought. The Lady is here at my invitation. Away with you. _Now_."

A snarl from his snow leopard daemon sent the guards scurrying back into the darkness of the night. Waiting until they had gone, the warm hand dropped her wrist, the man taking a step back. He was tall, taller than Edward with broad shoulders. His strong chiseled features made everything around him seem so small and weak in comparison. Next to him the stone statues perched on the fountain seemed to wither. Tawny blond hair framed a handsome face that was dominated by dark, deep, unfathomable eyes. She swooned, slightly, feeling as though she was drowning in their dark and dangerous depths and forced herself to tear her gaze away, her cheeks blushing. For his part, he cocked his head slightly to the side, a lion assessing his prey.

A man, oh yes, a powerful man but a mere man nonetheless, the golden monkey reminded her with a furtive glance, amenable to their will.

"Thank you," Marisa smiled sweetly, her confidence returning. "How embarrassing! I'm afraid I have left my invitation lying on the dressing table in the powder room."

"Liar." He replied, watching her with the faintest trace of sardonic amusement. "I saw you earlier on in the Rose Ballroom."

"Then why did you defend me just now?" Marisa asked, glaring fiercely at him, for she had never before met a man who had not melted at the sound of her melodic voice and succumbed to her will. "I don't know you."

"If it would please you, I shall fetch the guards and tell them to remove you," he offered, with a casual shrug.

"No," she replied hastily. "Please, I mean no harm. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, that's all. My name is Marisa."

The snow-leopard daemon gave a soft growl, her tail swishing behind her. The man placed a hand on her snow-white head to placate her, smiling charmingly at Marisa, those dark eyes melting slightly.

"Well then, since you've gone to all this effort to come and visit us Marisa, I should at least introduce you to the King," he told her with an amused chuckle.

"I don't even know who you are, though," Marisa whispered softly, accepting his offer of his arm, "let alone the king."

"Asriel," he told her, leading her towards the gold gilded doors of the Palace. "Asriel Belacqua."

In the Chapel, as it lay dying on the table, drowning in the silver tears from above, the petal shifted and shimmered in the moonlight, its colours melting and merging together until it glowed the deepest crimson, lighting the rose up above so it appeared as though the Aurora itself was painted onto the Rose.

The last act, its swan song.

For on this cold winter's eve, the eve of the day of the Saint to whom the Rose had belonged, it had been touched by a stained soul.

To be capable of the greatest evil, one must first experience the deepest of love.


	2. novellas sanguis

_Novellas Sanguis_

Deep in the folds of the billowing silk gown, she shivered, but not from the breath of the freezing winter breeze that rolled off of the River, which the Palace overlooked as the river snaked its way though the city of London. Rather, as the breeze teased and toyed with the thin layers of silk, Marisa Coulter shivered at the thought of what she was about to do; her destiny, or so she hoped.

It was with a great deal of uncertainty that she hazarded a glance up at the four stories of pre-Calvinist architecture, adorned with more inlaid gold than Marisa had thought possible. The Palace had, for the best part of four hundred years been the grandest and largest building in the world and, although she knew that the Palace was now dwarfed by the splendor of the Papacy's seat in Geneva, she couldn't help but feel intimated as she stepped through the gold gilded double doors and into the Snow Ballroom itself. It was not a feeling with which Marisa was accustomed but it clung to her, as she realised that her wildest dreams might yet come to fruition this very night. Or ruin.

It was different, she thought with a darting glance to her daemon, for her savior. This was his birthright, the legacy of his parents, the only world he had ever known. For, whilst she felt like a child once more, clinging to the arm of a powerful protector as she marveled at the sight of such finery, such dazzling jewels and crowns of visiting royalty, dresses that far exceeded even her own lavish tastes, hand stitched from the finest materials, he remained unperturbed, barely noticing the turning heads and burning glances from other guests, each more powerful than all the politicians Edward knew put together, as they watched the great Lord Asriel cut his way across the highly polished marble floor towards the dais where the head table and the King's Throne sat. Or rather, the Golden Monkey whispered softly in her ear, vibrating with a deep delight, watching the beautiful stranger, the interloper, on his arm.

A visiting royal, perhaps, some murmured.

Surely not a witch from the North, others whispered, not even Asriel would dare.

It was only half heartedly that Marisa listened to the Golden Monkey's reports, for she was lost in the opulence of the grandest of the Palace's Ballrooms; a place where the most important of dignitaries gathered, where decisions were made and the shape of the future was planned. Biting her lip she gazed upwards to the intricate stained-glass dome that towered four stories above her head, catching the icy white rays of the moon above and casting an ethereal pool of violet, rose and blue on the marble floor below.

"The Aurora," she murmured, slowing as she craned her neck in order to get a better view, drinking in the intricate details of the motif on the glass; shooting stars, armored bears and the Aurora itself shone down on her, mingling with the soft light from the little teardrop shaped crystal chandeliers that lit the ballroom like millions of tiny candles.

"Correct," Lord Asriel paused by her side, swiveling his dark orbs skyward. "As seen from the cliff tops at Svalbaard. It's by far one of the best vantage points. Have you ever been?"

Marisa shook her head, "no, although it's always been a dream of mine and I've certainly followed Your Lordship's explorations with great interest."

He looked at her, long and hard, as if seeing her for the first time before once more taking her arm and striding up the steps to the dais. He had thought her oblivious as to whom he really was but she had proved him wrong, something to which he was unaccustomed to.

"Are you a scholar in the field?" he asked, accepting two flutes of Tokay from the servant who approached timorously, proffering the drinks and bowing. Glossy black curls swirled away from a flawless face as she once more shook her head, almond shaped blue eyes that glittered and sparkled like ice glanced coyly at him from beneath the darkest of lashes. In that instant, it was as if his heart had stopped for a second as she smiled, delicate cheekbones flushing the palest pink as the melodic chuckle slipped from her full, ruby red lips. His breath seemed to stop somewhere in his lungs. Tearing her unfathomable gaze from the Golden Monkey, Stelmaria uttered the softest of growls, turning her emerald green eyes up to her master. A warning, he knew, but he would not heed it.

"No, although I intend to apply to become a member of the Royal Artic Institute."

"Without any expertise on the subject or experience of the North and knowing no-one on the selection committee, you really don't have a hope in hell of becoming a member," he told her casually, taking a long sip of his Tokay, his daemon swishing her tail, her eyes once more boring into those of the Golden Monkey. Under the intense scrutiny of the man and his daemon, she felt naked and exposed, her very soul bared for them both to see but she tossed her hair defiantly, jutting out her chin as she dropped his arm.

"I may not be a scholar or an explorer but I am also not some silly girl with only her flights of fancy to amuse her. I am willing to learn and I shall. I want to get to the top and I shall. Mark my words Asriel!" Her eyes glittered passionately. "Don't dare patronize me."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he laughed, seemingly amused by her outburst. "On the contrary, I think you're just what we need; new blood."

"Asriel, my boy, there you are!" A smile broke out across the older man's face as he strode up the steps to the dais, courtiers and guests alike bowing stiffly as he passed. Lord Asriel turned slightly, greeting the King with a virtuous, bland expression, Stelmaria gazing innocently at the King's Daemon, as the Dove fluttered in a motherly fashion around the Snow Leopard's head before settling herself on the King's shoulder. "I was beginning to think you'd vanished." Giving Asriel a fatherly pat on the back, the King's gaze finally fell on Marisa, who curtsied modestly, her daemon bowing. "My dear, you must forgive me, I didn't see you there."

"May I present Marisa," Lord Asriel cut another glance in her direction, this time, the hints of a smile twitching at his lips.

"Are you the niece of the Earl of Carlisle?" The King asked.

"Your Majesty, I am honored to be in your presence," Marisa kept her head down still curtseying, "but I must confess I am not of blue blood but the humble daughter of a banker. I am here at Lord Asriel's invitation."

"Well, child, you are most welcome at my table," The King told her kindly, helping her to her feet. "You must allow me the honor of you dining at my table."

Palace life was even more exotic than even Marisa had ever imagined. The night had passed in the blink of an eye; a dizzying whirl of indulgence and finery that she found more intoxicating than any of the luxurious wines presented to her in golden flutes and crystal goblets. But by far the most exhilarating thing of all was her companion. As the clock had struck midnight and the guests had begun to drift away, slowly at first before forming a steady trickle towards the courtyard, it occurred to her that she had spent the entire evening, hanging on his every word and memorizing every detail. Over six feet tall, with deep-set dark gray eyes guarded by heavy brows, that reminded her so much of a dark storm, she knew that this was a man who would spare no sentiment for those who crossed him He was a rugged man, severe and not afraid of a fight; the thin paper like scar that snaked its way down the back of his neck from his hairline bore testament to that. His features were as chiseled as the ice cliffs of Svaalbard, rarely translating into a smile, yet, when he did smile, his entire features melted and softened; a deep zest for life flickering in his eyes. A witty comment here or a profound insight there and he had, on more than one occasion during the evening, put to rest a growing argument or grievance aired by a visiting dignitary as they came to the top table, bowing humbly and begging the King for a favour on this holy night. He held those around him in the palm of his hand, a fact he treated with nothing more than a sardonic amusement.

"How are you?"

A low rumble that caused her to tear her gaze away from the photogram, as his hand briefly took her arm, pulling her a little closer to him as he passed her a golden flute. His touch sent a spark of electricity racing down her spine and for a moment, the room began to spin; the adrenalin, the wine, the sheer delight at being one of the chosen few invited to retire for a nightcap in the King's drawing room, she knew not which had caused the sudden dizziness nor did she care. She relished it. As thrilling as the Snow Ball had been, her wildest expectations had been far exceeded to find herself strolling languidly through the palace on Asriel's arm, him pointing out some of the palace's finer pieces of art or ancient relics from far distant lands and she, eager to learn.

"Fine, thank you," she murmured, watching as his expression froze to see the photogram that she had been examining. Frowning slightly, she turned to look at it once more, wondering what was so alarming about the photogram having pride of place on the King's mantle. However, her eye wandered past the photogram to the clock and an involuntary gasp slipped from her lips when she saw the hour. A hot flush crept to her cheeks as she remembered in that sickening moment that her husband had escorted her here and would have left several hours ago, undoubtedly furious at her inexplicable desertion. Edward's temper was a force to be reckoned with, she couldn't hide in this world in which she didn't truly belong any longer. "I should…..I….should be going."

He had bid her goodnight along with the others, his eyes lingering on her as she had cast one final glance in his direction before following the servant, who had been summoned to escort her, out of the room and through the myriad of hallways. Only when she was a safe distance from the drawing room and the last remnants of the revelry within could no longer be heard, did Marisa enquire after her husband. Her husband, Mr. Coulter, the servant told her, making a point of emphasizing his lack of title, had left some hours ago with the rest of the proletariat. Mr. Coulter had searched for her but she was nowhere to be found. Her husband, the servant told her sniffing haughtily, had advised the servants that should his wife be found, she was to arrange her own way home. It was with the faintest flush of embarrassment that she curtly informed the servant that she did not have a carriage for him to call. She lived very nearby, she assured him, casting a pointed glance at the large mansions across the river that Edward could never afford. He had nodded, bowed stiffly and watched her for only a moment as she stepped out into a flurry of snow and had begun the long walk through the palace gardens that would eventually lead her out onto the deserted street.

The snow, which had fallen so lightly before, was heavier now, clinging to her hair and soaking through the thin fabric of her dress. Chittering in distress, the Golden Monkey clung to her neck, in a futile effort to keep them both warm, warning her that they would freeze before they reached Edward's flat. Taking a shuddery breath, she braved onwards, her pale skin becoming translucent with cold, cutting a ghostly figure in the bleak winter night.

The door of the carriage was flung open even before it drew to a halt, its occupant leaping out and taking her in his arms. In an instant, the Golden Monkey was by the side of the Snow Leopard, his face buried in her deep fur as little mews of delight escaped from his throat. Wordlessly, Asriel removed his heavy overcoat and draped it over her shoulders. This time, when his hands touch her skin, the shiver was one of a deep coldness and his eyes darkened.

"You're frozen half to death!" he growled, "where do you live?"

"Chamberlain Court," she had managed to stammer, trembling with cold and making no effort to stop him as he half carried her into his carriage. Instructing his driver to make haste towards Chamberlain Court, Asriel brushed a few flakes of snow from her hair.

"What on earth possessed you to try and walk nearly eight damn miles in this weather?" Asriel demanded, drawing her close as she shivered. She tried to speak but her lips were numb. Asriel sighed an exasperated sigh of concern as he reached behind him and produced a thick, fur blanket, which he wrapped around her before once more taking her in his strong arms. Sheer exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her as the carriage sped through the London streets and with a soft sigh, she let her head rest against his shoulder, reassured by the steady, even beating of his heart. On the floor beside them, her daemon lay against Stelmaria, his little black hands clutching her thick fur as she curled around him. Through lowered lashes, Marisa dared a glance upwards, her breath catching to see Asriel staring intently at her, his eyes filling with a hungry longing when they locked with hers. For a split second she thought he might kiss her, a prospect that sent a thrill of anticipation through her. Tucking her hair behind her ear, he traced her cheekbone with his finger, her skin flushing under his touch. His grip on her tightened, before relaxing altogether as the carriage came to an abrupt halt, Lord Asriel emitting a trembling breath, that tickled her ear as he leant in close.

"Good night, _Mrs_ Coulter."

"Good night, My Lord," she whispered softly, feeling her cheeks flush as she realised that he knew her to be married and accepting the scroll that he pressed into her hand, before descending from the carriage and offering him the coyest of waves as the carriage took off into the night. Watching the carriage depart, she pulled her coat a little tighter around her shoulders, another shiver, this time of delight, coursing through her when it occurred to her that it was in fact his coat. Looking at the scroll, she bit her lip.

An invite to his lecture at the Royal Artic Institute, two words in his neat cursive along the top.

_New Blood_.

Her destiny, or she hoped.


	3. mortalitas basium

_Mortalitas __ basium _

He awoke with a jolt of unadulterated fear, drenched in a cold, clammy sweat that sent a shiver of apprehension skittering down his spine. The cry had left his lips long before he had the opportunity to prevent it and realise that the nightghasts which had haunted him were no more. He curled a fist deep into his daemon's fur, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths until the hammering of his heart subsided and the sweet, melodic whisper of a voice that called out in time with the echo of his heartbeat faded once more and became lost in the recesses of his memory. The voice that had vibrated in his memory like soft music was no more. Only the thought remained and to him alone came a thought of sorrow.

A kiss, a tender kiss to a child's crown; a memory of a last meeting that had taken place so many years ago or merely a figment of fancy feigned, which was no more real than the voice that he would have sworn had cried out his name only a split second ago.

"My Lord?" the hesitant voice quivered out as the solid oak doors to his bed chamber creaked open, a thin shaft of white light cutting its way through the darkness. "Is everything….."

"Fine, everything is fine," came the terse growl that caused his manservant to take a hasty step backward.

Thorold stood in the doorway for a heartbeat as words of protest formed on aged lips before dying silently under the ferocity of his master's glare that pierced through the darkness. His uncertain and disconcerted expression jumped and shifted in the candlelight as the old man once more remembered his place. Bowing his head, his daemon cowering submissively at his feet, Thorold backed from the bedchamber and closed the doors, engulfing Asriel in darkness once more.

Collapsing back onto his pillows, Asriel let out a shaky breath and squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to suppress the memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

There had been a different night, a different doorway, where Thorold, in the last blooms of his youth, had not been able to suppress his doubts. In the deadly silence that had followed Thorold's outburst, the voice had sliced through the silence; no longer sweet and low but ruthless and razor-sharp.

"_You dare question me?"_

"_No, Your Imperial Majesty," Thorold's voice was quiet and even, however, the tremor of his hand disclosed his fear, "I implore you to see reason. You are in grave danger; the Monks, the Nuns, they have betrayed you to the Rebels. They __are loyal to the Insurgents and the Former Pope. We cannot be certain that your message has reached Geneva and even if it has, the Magestrium's troops face a day's march. They won't reach us in time."_

" _The Magesterium knows of the Scroll and of its contents. Help is not coming. The Church cannot allow…" her voice faded, her emerald eyes sparkling with tears as she cast a despairing glance at her small child, sitting cross legged on the bed. _

"_There is an underground passage that runs from the old coal cellar near the servant's quarters to the nearby village. It's our only hope. Your Imperial Majesty, we must leave now and seek refuge in the hills," Thorold implored her, closing the suitcase and dragging it from the bed, "it is not safe for you to remain in the Monastery any longer." _

"_I thought we had more time," her eyes flicked towards the window before settling on her great Tiger Daemon, "I thought we would have until sunrise."_

_His heart quickened to see his Mother visibly pale as she pressed her lips together in a thin bloodless line as she momentarily clutched the ruby cross around her neck. Slipping from the bed, he crept towards her, hugging her legs. For a brief moment__, she crouched down and kissed the crown of her child's head__, smiling fondly at him before taking his hand in hers._

"_We're closer to the Prussian Border than we are to Geneva," his Mother was already moving towards the door, Thorold following behind her, "our only chance is to cross the hills tonight and seek refuge at the Court of Emperor Josef." For a moment her eyes clouded with uncertainty, "Surely he will see past any petty national squabbl__es and realize that this rebel faction threatens all of us."_

_The thunderous explosion shook the very walls of the Monastery, a flash of scarlet red erupting in the darkened sky. In the not so distant dark, harsh commands cut through the aftermath of the explosion, wolf daemons howling in anticipation of the hunt.. He cried out, clutched his Mother's hand so very tight. __Closing her eyes she emitted a soft sigh, as though she had finally come to an unexpectedly easy answer after having struggled with the calculation. When she opened them once more, the tears were gone, replaced by a fiery passion. _

"_Stay behind me, my little one," she had whispered._

_Three steps, maybe four, before the sound of the wolf daemon's snarl reverberated around the dark stone corridor. The great Tiger Daemon emitted a mighty roar as his Mother pushed him into Thorold's waiting arms before grabbing a sword from the nearby Statute of Armour._

"_Run, my darling, run!."_

"_Mama_!"

"_When you are older, my little one, you will understand. You are the answer."_

But he did not know the question. If he had ever known the question, it had been lost in the dull and frayed memories of his childhood. Prowling across his bedchamber to the window, Asriel gazed down at the snow covered street below. In the darkness, his thoughts turned to another voice; another kiss that never was, on lips that were for others. The stirring within him was deep and wild with regret as his daemon came to stand by his side, resting her head against his waist. Turning, he lowered his gaze to meet her unfathomable one. Had the journey lasted a moment longer he knew he would have kissed her.

"No good will come of this," Stelmaria warned him softly before turning and walking away, "none whatsoever."

She barely glanced up from stoking the stove when he entered the kitchen, leaning against the cold, hard marble work top.

"Isn't it rather late for you still to be up?" he demanded with far more irritation than he really felt. In truth, there was something distinctly comforting to find her standing in the kitchen with an arm full of logs. If he had thought for even a moment that she would not be here, he probably wouldn't have bothered to come to the kitchen at all.

"Child, after that yell half of London is awake," Mrs Mills snorted, wincing as she bent over to tend to the stove, "I'm only surprised that we haven't had the King's guards round here yet."

Perhaps it was the warm glow from the stove that cast a light which illuminated silver streaks in her hair, scraped back as always into an impossibly tight bun that otherwise would have gone unnoticed. Or, perhaps it was a testament as to how many years had slipped by since he had last snuck into her kitchen to steal a piece of vanilla cake and a glass of warm milk.

"You're too big to clamber onto the worktop, have been for the best part of fifteen years," Mrs Mills commented, treating him to one of her steely glances and leaving him to wonder if she could in fact read his mind; a question he had often asked himself as a small child when she had, with the tenacity of a bloodhound, caught him red handed every time he had misbehaved or broken the many rules that she had laid down, never once accepting his complaint that it was hard to keep track of what he was and was not permitted to do. When he had he tried to point out that he was a Lord of the Realm, a Royal Prince, no less, at age seven, and so should be allowed to do as he pleased, he had earned a lashing for his troubles. "And that one," she continued, waving a wooden spoon in the direction of Stelmaria as she lay sphinx like at his feet, watching the golden retriever daemon as he sat stoically by the stove, "can no longer change shapes and sneak into the cupboards to steal, thank Authority for small mercies!"

His mutinous glower, so reminiscent of that he had borne so often as a child when she had chased him from the kitchen, caused a kindly chuckle to escape her lips as calloused and wrinkled hands reached for the cake stand and cut him a generous slice of cake that she placed by his side, giving his cheek an affectionate pat as she did so. Another thing, he realised, that was harder for her to do, for she was barely five foot tall when she had been young and the years since had seen her spine curve and weaken.

"You're heading for the North again, aren't you?" she asked, concentrating on stirring the milk. He considered answering her but knew better than to utter the words she hated to hear and so opted to take a bite of his cake instead. "You have that look about you. I shan't waste my time trying to talk you out of it; I spent the better part of my life trying to convince your mother to stay in one place for all the good it did. What were you – three maybe four - when she first took you with her to Svaalbard?"

He nodded slowly, not entirely sure of how old he had been but remembering the cold kiss of the artic wind against his cheek as if it had only been yesterday. His gloved hand clinging so tightly to that of his mother as they had disembarked their ship, unable to tear his gaze from the night sky above, where shooting stars blazed a glorious trail through the blackness of the night until it looked as though the very sky itself had gone to war, the stars throwing their spears to rain down from the heavens on the mere mortals below.

"The King cannot protect you forever," all of her concentration appeared to be on the milk, which she poured deftly into a warmed mug, "the Magesterium has killed before to keep their secrets. You are not immune. You risk losing more than the throne, Asriel."

"I'd sooner be the Defender of Truth than the Defender of the Faith."

The kiss to the top of her head was unexpected for he hadn't been so openly affectionate since he was a small child and certainly not following the death of his beloved Mother. The tears which cascaded down her aged cheeks as she watched him stride from the room, exuding a calm air of authority and purpose were entirely expected for, like his Mother, he had been destined from the very start to be greatness personified.

He who was born of night was put on this earth to travel but a short time in day, for in death he would find immortality and fulfil his destiny.

******

Blinding pain exploded in her head as his fist connected with her temple, sending her sprawling to the floor. She squealed, tasting the metallic flavor of her own blood. Through a rapidly swelling eye, she watched him raise his fist again.

"_Traversing the streets until all hours like a common whore_!"

The pig's teeth dug a little deeper into the flesh of the Golden Monkey. She didn't flinch, she didn't flee. She knew, now, there was more than this cold, dreary flat. She knew life had more to offer than her once useful husband could ever possibly give her.

She knew now that there was another way.

******

It was a voice that he hadn't heard in nearly twenty one years and yet so vividly did it pierce the veil of sleep that he awoke with a start, crying out for those who had long since departed. As the cold, clammy sweat coursed down his forehead and stung his eyes, he collapsed back onto his pillows as the cold fist of apprehension tightened in his stomach.

_A roar as the great Tiger Daemon launched himself at their attackers._

_A burst of gold light that showered her in an ethereal glow._

"_My child!"_

He had felt it, a premonition, like footsteps of the devil crawling up his spine, the moment he had laid eyes on the beguiling stranger. He had known, with absolute and bone-chilling certainty that this one, this interloper, was somehow different from all the others. The woman possessed a beauty of the kind that could drive even the most resolute of men to madness.

His daemon fluttered anxiously from her customary perch on the headboard to her human's shoulder, crooning softly as he stroked her snow white feathers. In the darkness, he pictured once more in his mind's eye the heated glance between his ward and the stranger when she had departed from his drawing room only hours before. He had known in that soul crushing moment that he had failed his beloved in the sacred charge she had laid at his door in the moment of her death. He had failed to keep her child, her beloved son, safe from the destiny that she had feared.

Silently, in the dead of night, the King slipped from his bedchambers sneaking through the deserted maze of corridors like a common thief, not pausing until he reached the inner sanctum of her chapel.

It was as he feared.

The rose was dying.


	4. fidei defensor

_fidei defensor_

With a thrill of anticipation and a twinge of trepidation, Marisa glanced up at the dark November sky and felt the gentle whisper of snow brush against her face. She had for the best part of a week, agonised over the decision to come; if only she could be certain that she wasn't on a fool's mission. The building loomed before her, knifing up into the dark November sky. A cold, dark, sleek block of black granite that stood in a stark contrast next to the more ornate and older buildings that had stood for centuries on the same spot and seemed to frown in disapproval at the new impostor. It was like a mighty iceberg erupting from an otherwise bleak sea, a beacon in an otherwise dismal landscape.

Taking a deep breath and telling herself it was now or never, she walked into the foyer. A nest of butterflies erupted into flight in her stomach at the mere thought of being in his presence once more; her daemon quivering with a deep delight as he hugged her neck. It was with more confidence than she really felt that she purposefully strode across the gleaming floor her heels clicking on the shiny slate tiles. The foyer was bustling; a swirl of young academics clutching briefcases and chattering excitedly and older politicians with their insincere smiles and hollow greetings all meandering towards the doors to the lecture theatre. She knew from experience that politicians viewed such events as little more than a networking opportunity and this lecture would be no exception. Visiting royal dignitaries, even the King himself, would be in attendance to hear Lord Asriel speak. Granted, they would be at the front of the lecture theatre, separated from the common man, but it always paid to be seen. One politician, a man she vaguely recognized from Edward's last, tedious dinner party, knitted his brows in confusion for a split second as he placed her before brightening considerably and advancing towards her.

"Marisa! I say, Marisa!"

Her heart sank to think she would be forced to spend the evening at his side, singing her husband's praises and massaging the politician's considerable ego. Curling her fingers tight in her daemon's fur, feeling his angry growl reverberate deep within, she forced the cordial and delighted smile onto her face. However, before the politician had the chance to reach her side, the concierge intercepted him, bowing politely and asking to see her invitation.

"Straight up the stairs, Mrs. Coulter," the concierge informed her with a congenial smile after he had examined her invitation. "Lord Asriel's personal guests are enjoying an aperitif in the Reading Room prior to his lecture."

She nodded politely and began to ascend the wide, curved staircase that swept upward to the balcony above, her every movement exuding a confidence that told those eyes that watched her ascent that she belonged to this world of grandeur. Already she could detect the faint strains of classical music floating down from the room above, mingling with the gentle hubbub of excited chatter. It took all of her self control not to turn and cast a haughty glance down at the humble bourgeoisie below, for she was sure Edward's politician friend was watching with open mouthed incredulity as she, the mere wife of a politician, joined the aristocratic circle.

Standing in the doorway of the Reading Room, Marisa paused for a moment, hungrily drinking in the taste of power and the sight of the most prominent aristocrats and royals, all the while scanning the assembled crowd for a glimpse of him. Her heart sank a little when she realised that he was not in the room. However, her disappointment was only momentary, as the disgruntled and disbelieving cry floated down from above.

"You're out of your minds! All of you!"

Swiveling her head, along with the other guests, Marisa cast her eyes upwards to the balcony which encircled the reading room. A tall gentleman, whom she recognized from the Snow Ball as being one of the King's Advisers, had emerged from a darkened doorway above onto the balcony. Trembling, his frog daemon shuffling around his feet in agitated distress, the man pointed an accusatory finger at the group of men who emerged behind him.

"An insider, it _has _to be. How else could they have obtained such highly sensitive information? There is a spy in Whitehall! There is a traitor among us!"

The deathly silence which followed his outburst was deafening. Every whisper of conversation below was quashed in a heartbeat, dozens of frightened, beleaguered eyes swiveling upwards.

"This is neither the time nor the place, gentlemen," the sneer of cool command cut through the palpable tension, dispersing the riled expressions of his companions as he emerged from the shadows, a hand on the snow leopard's head. The very sound of his voice send a shiver racing through her as the room let out the collective breath it had been holding. "These are discussions best left for Whitehall."

He did not wait for a response, for he had left no room for doubt. Without another word, the group dispersed, heading for the spiral staircase that lead down to the reading room below. Leaning heavily on the railing, Asriel watched his companions melt into the crowd below as the murmurs of conversation began once more. Stelmaria murmured to him and he turned, staring deep into his daemon's eyes with an unfathomable frown. He knew human folly like the back of his hand. The last ten years had taught him several harsh lessons; the shallow value of wealth, the recklessness of romance, the brutal reality that a man had to stand alone. Yet as he stood high on the balcony above, surveying the frivolity in the reading room below, he felt his gut tighten. All his life he had strived for perfection: below perfection of a kind, a lone splendor shining bright in the darkness of the room, was conversing with an elegant eloquence that he had never before witnessed. Glossy black curls glistening in the light from the naphtha lamps swirled around her perfect alabaster face, her soft laughter, melodic and low, floated above the hubbub of gentle chatter to the balcony above and he allowed himself to be momentary lost in the delicious sound as he watched her charm the Prince Reagent of Tuscany. The most unwelcome intrusion, the sound of the Steward's voice asking the assembled guests to move towards the lecture theatre, roused him from his daydream, dragging him back to the harsh reality of the present. His pulse accelerated as she walked towards the door, his throat constricting as she hazarded the quickest of glances upwards in his direction. It had been so brief that he couldn't be certain that she had really smiled at him at all, the tip of her tongue provocatively running over sensual lips that were for others.

"The King may be in attendance," Stelmaria purred with a dark glint in her dark eyes, "however once you state your case, even he shall be powerless to protect you. We shall be on our own."

Another profound and indecipherable glance between man and his daemon and a thousand words, a thousand thoughts, a thousand dreams passing between them in the briefest of seconds as both acknowledged their fate.

"Come," he murmured to Stelmaria, "we had better not keep them waiting."

The stunned silence that followed his statement, hung in the hair before erupting like the first clap of thunder before a storm. Over the excited din, a furious sneer cut through the noise:

"Are you suggesting that this…._script_…predates the flood itself?"

The voice was that of the Cardinal Archbishop, who rose to his feet as he spoke, his lizard daemon flicking her tongue in anger as he glared formidably first at Asriel himself and then at the King, who sat expressionless in the front row with the other Heads of State in attendance.

"Surely I need not remind our most Imperial Majesty of the danger of supporting such assertions."

"Forgive me, My Lord," the sound of her seductive, soft voice, silenced the protest that formed on many a lip to see the Cardinal so flagrantly ignore the politics of addressing their Head of State, distilling rising tempers and drawing attention quite firmly onto her and her alone, "perhaps I have misunderstood. This stone carving _predates_ the Great Flood. Surely all that confirms is that there was a civilization prior to the Great Flood, not that it _survived _the Great Flood; to prove that the script would have to be dated to the time of the Great Flood itself or the immediate aftermath, proving that there was one continuous, unbroken, _unaffected _civilization."

Dark, unfathomable eyes bored into hers, an enigmatic smile flittering across his otherwise stern face as he gave a terse nod, "precisely."

There were more questions, mostly from the scholars in attendance which he fielded with an ease and grace that left her in awe but she found herself unable to give the now more amicable debate that filled the room her full attention. Rather, she had sat quite still, immune to the rapturous applause as the lecture ended, oblivious to the jovial chatter of Prince Philippe as he introduced her to his inner circle, all the time haunted by the melancholy in Asriel's eyes. Declining a glass of Champagne as the waiters once more began their circuit of the most important of guests, Marisa excused herself, barely remembering to curtsy, before slipping from the room.

It was deep in the recess of the atrium, half hidden behind a colossal statue of the first Bear King, little more than a thinned and yellow scrap of paper, shriveled and torn around the edges. She had not been entirely sure where she was going and so she had let her instincts guide her to the antiquity's hiding place, out of view of most. Peering through the thickened glass, Marisa wondered what the complex series of lines actually meant. There had been several attempts to read it, she knew. All had failed. Roberovski had managed to date the script, or so he had claimed, to having been created shortly after the Great Flood that had washed all sin from the earth. The discovery, Marisa remembered although she had only been a small child at the time, had caused quite a stir. But the code could not be broken and interest in the script had dwindled and died out.

Until now.

For as she stared at the ancient scroll, she knew with cast iron certainty that the tablet produced by Lord Asriel during his lecture, found deep under the ice of Svallbaard contained the same series of perplexing lines.

"I'm impressed," his voice was little more than a low growl but still it reverberated in the silence of the atrium as he came to stand behind her, resting a hand on the snow leopard's head. "I didn't think anyone had remembered Roberovski's script."

"Only it's _not _Roberovski's script at all," Marisa reached forward, letting her fingers trace the glittering gold letters inlaid on the white marble base that shone and sparkled like ice:

_Bequeathed to the Royal Artic Institute by the Grace of the Authority, His Servant on Earth, Princess Gabriella of Brytain and the Brytish Dominions beyond the Seas, Imperial Majesty, Defender of the Faith, Saint of His Church upon her passing from this Earth on 11__th__ November 1840._

"It belonged to the Good Lady Gabriella," she continued softly, "left to the institute when she died."

"It was what she died _for_," he corrected her, clenching his teeth as his face darkened in despair, "if the deciphering of the symbols proved that this civilization had existed _before _the Great Floor and indeed continued entirely unaffected by the same, it would bring into question the accuracy of the Bible. The church's teachings would be undermined – dismissed as being entirely _irrelevant_. Questions, questions as to the very age and origin of the world itself would be raised. The church would quite simply lose control," his eyes blazing with a passionate fury, he reached out to touch the glass, "in the aftermath of the Revolution of 1840, it was unthinkable."

"It's unthinkable even now," Marisa murmured, her brow furrowed, fear flittering across her face as she turned to face him, "the Church won't allow it. It would be madness to pursue this. Asriel, it's a death sentence."

"She knew something," strong fingers traced over the name before coming to rest on the glass, a fierce look of concentration upon his face as though he was trying to distill the knowledge of the departed by touch alone, "she gave her life in the hope that one day the truth would prevail."

"How can you be so sure it's what she died for?" Marisa whispered, stepping closer still.

"Because she was my mother," he replied simply, his hand falling from the glass.

He knew only to well the folly of letting his mask slip. It was only for the briefest moment but in that instant she saw it all so clearly as his heart lay open and exposed; the boy, drowning in the depths of a divine despair. A pain so old and yet so fresh so as to relive it with every wakening, as her memory clung to him, leaving a stain on his soul. Her fingers were as soft as silk, tenderly finding his and becoming intertwined.

"My Lord," the steward appeared, bowing stiffly, "Lady Belacqua wishes you to know the carriages are now departing; you have dinner reservations at the Savoy."

"Very good, Granton," Lord Asriel grunted, the intensity of the moment evaporating instantly as he turned on his heel and set off apace towards the stair case, calling over his shoulder, "I trust you can join us for dinner? Cecily is most anxious to meet you."

"Your wife?" Marisa asked, hoping her voice sounded as nonchalant as she hoped, all the while suppressing the most irritating feelings of jealousy that had welled up within her when the steward had mentioned Lady Belacqua.

"Cecily is my cousin," Asriel told her with a sardonic smile as she accepted his proffered arm, "_Mrs. _Coulter."

He had said something, she had blushed, laughed. Together they had descended the stair case to the foyer below, greeted by his peers, with good natured jibes for holding them up. Hidden in the shadows above, the King emitted a troubled sigh. Already it was as though she had always been one of them, born of noble blood, educated in the ways of the aristocratic circle. Turning slightly to address his personal secretary, the King never once let his gaze falter from the frivolity below.

"One of my junior advisors, you say?"

"Yes, My Liege," the elderly man took a step forward, coming to rest behind the King's left shoulder, "a very recent appointment upon the recommendation of the Master of Jordan College. Well educated, but quick to anger and not altogether popular.

"Send a messenger to Mrs Coulter in the morning. I wish to speak to her alone. Ask her to come to the Palace tomorrow afternoon."

"Very well, My Leige," the elderly man bowed slightly before asking, "is there anything else?"

The King was silent for a moment as he let his gaze linger on the glass display cabinet. Closing his eyes and stroking his daemon's feathers he gave a curt nod.

"Yes," the King said grimly, "the Roberovski script….it must be destroyed immediately."

A line he had prayed he would never have to cross.

A path once chosen that he could not veer from.

A promise he had made, which would now be broken.


End file.
